Stasis
by lithugraph
Summary: stasis: (noun) the state of equilibrium or inactivity caused by opposing equal forces. He is both Bucky and The Winter Soldier. Drabble/Bucky character study. Takes place just before the events in Captain America: Civil War (MCU). Rated T for language. Cover image credit: xxmoonwish on DeviantArt


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 **Stasis**

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 _stasis: (noun) the state of equilibrium or inactivity caused by opposing equal forces._

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12:30 AM. Half-past midnight. 0030 hours. Zero dark thirty.

He doesn't sleep.

Stares instead at the ceiling fan whirring above. Counts the blades as they pass, hoping the rhythm will lull him into some form of rest like before.

One two three four five. One two three four five. One two three four five.

Not working this time.

He maneuvers into a seated position and resigns himself to the fact that, tonight, he will be awake. The sleeping bag hisses a little as it slides against the bare mattress. Red flannel grazes across his vision, shadows dancing across wood walls, the smell of logs burning. It happens in an instant. His brow dips, wondering if the memory is a real one, because he thinks _'sleeping bag,'_ and then his brain connects it with words like _'camping,' 'forest,' 'cabin'_ and fills in the blanks with a pre-constructed library of images, sound, and scent. The only problem is figuring out if they come from an actual experience.

Some threads are hard to follow.

Maybe it _is_ time to get some real sheets...

But he's been on the move for so long. Not sure what it feels like, to be still. And he likes his sleeping bag, really he does. And not just for its practicality. Because there are still _those_ nights (and sometimes days), when his skin itches. Itches from the inside out. Like there's somethin' tryna get out. Will rip him open - scatter him into a million pieces - to get out. But he has to keep it in. Don't let it out - _can't_ let it out - _hold yourself together_. He cocoons himself in the bag, in case he does break apart. At least he knows where all the pieces will be. It's as close to _safe_ as he ever gets.

( _Fear is nature, Sergeant.)_

His hand gives an involuntary twitch, eyes widen for the briefest of moments. He does not stop to think whether or not the memory is real. He knows. (There is a hole where his stomach used to be and it is filling up with ice and he needs to get something else in it quick to ground him).

He makes the short journey from bed to kitchen and places the metal pot on a burner to make coffee. Daily activity. Routine. Engaging in them marks the difference between ending up a shaking, shivering, dry heaving mess on all fours or remaining present and standing.

Some threads are hard to follow.

Others, not so much.

He is still learning.

The gurgling water suddenly seems too loud to be permitted in the small, quiet flat. A moment of panic and he's reaching for the hot metal to silence the source.

In a moment, he forgets.

In a moment, he remembers.

He retracts his arm, realizing he nearly burnt the fuckin' fingers off his _good_ hand...

 _Hates_ nights like these.

When the coffee's done, he pours a cup and sits by the window. Has a good view of the street below - can see at least a half mile down in either direction. Can see the intersecting streets and alleys, the buildings opposite. Good sight lines.

He likes Bucharest.

Or he thinks he does.

It's cheap. Affordable. Has remnants of things he remembers, mixed with things that are new. Bloc housing and sports cars. Communist smiles and American denim. A bit like him, really. Some of the old folks will even speak Russian with him. But he has to be careful of that. (There are words - _don't think about that -_ said in the right order - _don't think -_ that have power over him - _don't don't don't don't!)_ The young people prefer English or Romanian.

He is still learning.

Even managed to remember the right word for 'plums' the other day, when he bought some from the little market stall just below his window.

Felt good. That little bit of conversation.

Usually he just goes to the store, sticks stuff in a basket, and doesn't talk. He's still working up the nerve to buy a paper from the news vendor across the street. But there's something about that man he doesn't like. He can feel the man watching him, wanting him to turn, to get a good look at him. The woman who sells the plums is different. She's Roma - an outsider, like him - and could give two shits about who he is. And he finds he likes feeling that way to another human being. Inconsequential.

He is still learning.

Adjusting.

Never really had to do that before. He just _did._ Some call it training. Others call it programming. He knows it's really somewhere in between. Because he remembers. Remembers everything. Seeing acting doing. Not thinking, though. Never allowed to think. Or feel.

Even now, when the memories replay in his head, he can do nothing but watch. He has not yet begun to feel ( _fear and frustration are instincts_ ) and wonders if he ever will.

 _(We are merely_ enhancing _what is already there.)_

He sips his coffee and sees the lips twitch and pull down. The ever-present frown. _Seriously, does this guy do anything other than scowl?_ He is not the one Zola wants, but he's the one Zola gets. Sometimes he wonders if what they do to him isn't some twisted form of revenge, for not being someone else...

Zola spouts words like _'destiny'_ and _'fate'_ (in between words like _'stubborn' 'average' 'ordinary'_ ) until he almost, _almost_ believes the scowling little man in glasses.

 _'The soul has needs, Sergeant.' 'Different souls, different needs.' 'You cannot help what you are.' 'Your work will serve a greater purpose.' 'You were a sniper for a_ reason. _You survived that fall for a_ reason! _There is a reason for everything.' 'We are merely enhancing what is already there.'_

But no matter what he does, it's never good enough. He can never get the little man to smile.

Time passes, as does Zola. But to him, it's all the same. It may have been a day or a decade since he last saw the scowling little man. He has new handlers. Seems like their faces change each time he wakes up. (Even now, when he tries to remember, the faces pass in a blur, like words on fanned book pages.)

But then there is Pierce. And Pierce believes his work is _good_. Even has a new name for him: Asset. He's useful, valuable _(owned)._ And Pierce always tells him _(property)_ his work is good, that it serves a purpose _(in the hands of)._

Things are easy with Pierce. Black and white. No grey. Mission brief. Execute. Report.

And Pierce always smiles.

Except when he doesn't. And that means the chair. They turn his mind to static.

In a moment, he forgets.

Brief. Execute. Report.

In a moment, he remembers.

 _That man on the bridge..._

Static.

The only thing that matters is the mission. It is a blessing to be free of the burden of memory….

Right?

The only thing that matters is the mission.

And the mission is….

The Mission is….

The Man On The Bridge.

( _He has a name. You know it. He knows you. He has a name. You know it…_ remember _it, remember it, remember….)_

The fall is a shock to his system. Like falling in a dream - something familiar but still scary as fuck. And maybe that's why he pulls that man out of the river. Maybe the fall has knocked a few screws loose. And maybe, maybe _maybe_ he wants to believe what that man said. But he's not gonna hang around to find out he's wrong. If what the man said is true, the ride's not over yet.

He still has a few things intact when he leaves D.C. Namely survival skills. And a lexicon of languages he knows but doesn't know _how_ he knows them.

He knows how to disappear. Knows what jobs to take, how to get cash. Doesn't do wet-work, though. Won't do _that_ anymore. ('Sides, it's not like Hydra ever paid him for his services.)

The memories come later. Synapses slipping through, tracing new pathways through the fried circuitry of his hijacked mind. The first ones - the _best_ ones - are nothing more than vague impressions, little wisps like smoke dissipating in air. And yes, he gets frustrated trying to hold onto even one; yet with time, he realizes the more he thinks about them, the more he remembers. He starts writing them down - even if it's nothing more than just one word. He saves it, in ink on paper, and tucks it away to think about later.

The memory of his kills, however, hit him full-force. The first time it happens is in the middle of the Atlantic, when he stows away on a freighter. A crewman finds him, a blubbering mess below deck. Upon being discovered, whatever Hydra has hardwired into him takes over. He eliminates the threat. Snaps the man's neck and throws him overboard.

 _(Fear is nature, Sergeant.)_

He has to be careful. He's re-lived those kills over and over again. Remembers every single one. Yet they can still blindside him. A word or a scent, color or light or a voice or face can trigger it.

He imagines his brain - a normal, healthy, average chunk of grey matter - and the black vine that is Hydra crawling over it and through it. Like a growth. A cancer. It splits his mind into two. There's the one that's all white clouds most of the time, with bits of his past peaking through like sun. Then there's the one that's been charred and twisted by what he's done (and by what's been done to him).

Sometimes he doubts. Like any human. Especially when his 'good' memories are so hard to see and the black ones are so much more vivid. Harder to trust somethin' you don't know for certain...

He doubts.

If he ever _was_ a different person...

(His biggest fear is that it's never going to change.)

Reads his journals just to be sure.

And doesn't sleep.


End file.
